


Warning Signs

by out_there



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-19
Updated: 2008-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-07 16:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning signs can indicate any potential hazard, obstacle or condition requiring special attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warning Signs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Researchgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Researchgrrl).



> Promised to [](http://researchgrrrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**researchgrrrl**](http://researchgrrrl.livejournal.com/) and it only took me a year to finish. Let's pretend it occurs towards the end of S3 but before Chase, Cameron and Foreman left. Thanks to [](http://nestra.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nestra.livejournal.com/)**nestra** for betaing (and catching my many misused apostrophes. Isn't it lovely to know there's always a new part of English grammar that you start screwing up?).

People, like illnesses, have warning signs. A sudden increase in temperature or a sudden decrease in blood pressure, it's all the same thing. An absence of the norm.

Gregory House was lying naked and silent on Wilson's bed, and calling it unnerving was like referring to a hurricane as a little gusty.

Wilson had no problems with the naked thing. They were both naked and sex worked better like that anyway. Same for the bed thing; the few times they'd tried using Wilson's stylish but ultimately impractical couch had proved beds the far better option. But the silence? That wasn't right.

House talked. It was what he did. He did it drunk, sober, half-asleep and wired on too much coffee. He talked in theatre, in patient's rooms, in the cafeteria and he definitely talked after sex. It was a norm, an expected reaction. House was not supposed to lounge about, staring at Wilson's ceiling with a slightly amused smirk and say _nothing_.

"You're very quiet," Wilson hazarded, just in case House was only being quiet for the sake of it, and being the first to speak would lose some game Wilson hadn't agreed to play.

"I'm basking." House kept his hands folded behind his head while giving a little roll of his shoulders. But he didn't say anything else. No rambling diatribe about the Red Sox, no discussion of the finer points of accepted idiocy, no rating Cuddy's wardrobe choice as appropriate hooker wear.

It was disturbing.

"Basking? In what?"

"The afterglow." House tilted his head towards Wilson and rolled his blue eyes extravagantly. "You have no sense of romance."

"I have no sense of romance? I'm not the one who bought a spare tire as a Valentine's gift."

"It was a gift for Cuddy. She thought it was romantic."

"She thought it was a sign that you were responsible for slashing one of her tires."

House grinned. "And she spent the rest of the day striding back and forth to the parking garage to try to work out which tire it was. Since I was smart enough not to touch any of them, I avoided clinic duty all day without her knowing."

Sighing, Wilson tried not to be charmed by the mischievous glint in House's gaze. "So it was basically a gift to yourself."

"And I thought it was very romantic of me," House said, wide-eyed and looking as innocent as Satan. "I was thoroughly smitten. Finally agreed to go out to dinner with myself. Even put out at the end of the night."

Wilson waited, expecting House to lead to a discussion of diners, the futility of Valentine's gifts or the rarity of sex at the end of the first date. To one of a hundred topics that could be argued endlessly without meaning anything. But House winked, then turned back to his quiet study of the ceiling.

Wilson looked up, but the ceiling remained plastered, white and completely unremarkable. "House?"

"Shh," House replied without looking around.

Wilson blinked. This was getting weirder and weirder. And weird, when it came to House, was a flashing neon sign screaming DANGER AHEAD. He carefully asked, "Because you're basking?"

"Yeah."

"You don't usually 'bask'."

"The afterglow isn't usually worthy of it."

One of the more interesting things about having any type of relationship with House was the range of emotions he'd provoke. Indignation, annoyance and amusement were the three that featured most prominently, normally all at the same time. "But tonight's performance was especially worthy of basking?"

"I've decided to bask. I'm not saying you've suddenly become the guru of blowjobs, but tonight's effort was above your usual standard." House slanted a sideways look at Wilson, pausing for a moment as if concerned. "Judging by your expression, you've decided to sulk."

"No," Wilson said, as sarcastically as he could, "I've decided to bask in your overwhelming tact."

House shrugged, as much as he could while lying on his back with his hands behind his head, and gave Wilson a far too satisfied smile.

***

Knowing House was acting unusually and therefore planning something -- a scheme, a dare, possibly an apocalypse -- and knowing what was actually going on were two different things. Wilson had no idea, but he was intrigued. It was like seeing a car suddenly slam on the brakes on a freeway: logic states it'll end in a four car pile-up, but it's still fascinating to watch.

For all his faults, House was always fascinating. When he had the grace to show up.

Despite the fact that he'd asked Wilson to lunch -- to the hospital cafeteria, but the phrase _'meal-time rendezvous'_ had been bandied about -- and Wilson had had to rearrange three appointments on a particularly busy day to clear the specified hour, House hadn't shown.

It could have been any number of reasons: a new patient, an unexpected complication in the clinic, a sudden plot twist on a soap. House skipping a meal wasn't unusual. It was a sign of selfishness and a disregard for other people, but it wasn't a warning sign. It would have been reassuringly normal if Chase hadn't come up to him in the cafeteria asking if he'd seen House.

"Why?" Wilson asked, pushing the last few limp shreds of lettuce around his plate. "What's he hiding from?"

"Nothing as far as I know," Chase said, shrugging and looking more bored than anxious, "but he's not in his office, or yours, or Cuddy's. He's not with Coma Guy, New Coma Guy or the broken MRI machine. And he's not answering his phone."

Wilson pushed his plate away and acknowledged that the cafeteria salad was a lost cause. "Did you need him?"

"No." Chase gave a quick shake of his head, sending the sandy blond hair flapping across his forehead. "Lull between patients. There's nothing to do. Cameron's researching a paper, Foreman's catching up on clinic paperwork and I just wanted to see if I could go home early."

"But no House to give you permission?"

Chase thought for a moment. "No House to tell me not to. Unless you know where he is?" he asked reluctantly.

"No idea," Wilson said, standing up. He piled the cutlery and napkin onto the plate. "Play hooky at will."

***

He didn't see House until after four that afternoon, when House limped out to his balcony, swung a leg over the divider and then produced a whiteboard marker from his pocket. Wilson got the door open before House started scribbling any offensive graffiti on the glass. (Last week, it'd been "Cancer is for morons" written backwards, so it read clearly from inside Wilson's office. Luckily, the patient who spotted it had a good sense of humour.)

"You missed lunch."

House's mouth dropped open in shock. "Your astute powers of observation amaze me. Come on, now guess my name."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Gregory House."

"My weight?"

"187 pounds."

House blinked. "That's pretty accurate."

"I saw you step on the scales yesterday."

"Don't spoil the mystery for me. A magician shouldn't reveal his tricks." House leaned the cane against the wall and braced both hands on the railing. "I'm still giving you points for it."

"Where were you today?"

"Missed me?"

"I had to rearrange three appointments to clear one o'clock, and you never showed," Wilson said, nowhere near as annoyed as any normal person would have been. That was one of the problems of dealing with House: you started to forget how a normal, sane person would react. "Where were you?"

House leaned closer. "Breaking," he said quietly, then paused to scan the balcony to make sure he wasn't overheard, "and entering."

Wilson groaned. "You don't currently have a patient."

"But felonies are such fun. Why does the guy have to be my patient for me to screw with his stuff?"

Burying his head in his hands, Wilson sighed. "Please tell me this has nothing to do with that plastic surgeon taking your car space yesterday."

Dutifully, House repeated, "This has nothing to do with the plastic surgeon taking my car space yesterday. I did not break the law simply to mess with that Nip/Tuck wannabe's things. Scout's honour."

"Oh, god." All the ways that this could blow up in House's face flashed before Wilson's eyes. "If Cuddy asks, I knew nothing about this."

"If Cuddy ends up asking you, I didn't do it right in the first place."

***

Since Wilson had moved out of his home, out of House's place, out of the hotel and finally into his own apartment, they'd developed a routine that usually ended at his place. Occasionally, he'd stay at House's -- after a long night at the hospital with a precarious, hours-to-live patient, or when there was something vitally important on TV, like the series finale of _'The OC'_, which the fifteen year old patient in orthopedics would completely ruin for House if he didn't see it first -- but House usually insisted on Wilson's apartment.

Except House kept inviting him over.

Wilson didn't have any fundamental objection to staying the night at House's. The commute wasn't much longer than from Wilson's place; the double bed was relatively comfortable (far, far better than House's couch). With the added incentive of sex, House could be convinced to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

House usually bitched about how early Wilson got up and how loudly Wilson used the bathroom. He loudly resented finding spare hangers for Wilson's change of clothes and the nuisance of purchasing groceries -- in order for Wilson to cook him dinner. Apparently, Wilson was quieter in his own place (he closed doors between the bathroom and the bedroom; he was considerate of the neighbours) so House could sleep later.

It was the change of expected behaviours that worried him. On the other hand, if House was lying in bed beside him, it wasn't like he could get up to too much mischief.

Whatever House was up to, it wasn't important enough to interfere with Poker Night. Judging by House's, "Just because you hang around hopefully, doesn't mean you get to play," Wilson's standing anti-invite still applied.

"I'm not hanging around hopefully," Wilson replied, searching through the pantry and finding it suspiciously free of snacks. "I was looking for snacks."

"Under the sink," House yelled from the couch. He was multitasking: watching Veronica Mars on TV and counting through the stack of chips, arranging them by denomination.

Wilson went to the sink, opened the cupboard door, and was surprised to find at least six family-sized bags of chips staring back at him. "Why are they under the sink?"

"So that when you get the munchies, you keep making those sun dried tomato and mozzarella cheese things."

"I thought you said those were a pale imitation of pizza?"

"A pale imitation, but they're still good." House shuffled into the kitchen and reached up to get the serving bowls. The thin college sweatshirt lifted with the movement, revealing a strip of bare skin. House grinned when he caught Wilson looking. "No matter how long you hang around, you're not getting any action tonight. Gambling or otherwise."

"I don't see why I can't play." It was a disagreement they'd had before and one that House refused to cave on.

"You throw off my game."

"You still win."

"Yeah," House said, stepping up behind him and snaking a hand across Wilson's hip, hooking his thumb under the waistband, "but having you there takes the fun out of it."

"Of course." Wilson ignored the hand and poured a packet of chips into a bowl. "I can see how playing with someone you actually know would make the experience miserable."

"It's not fun because I win," House said, breathing the words against Wilson's neck. Stubble scratched against his skin. It was fighting dirty, but the best part about arguing with House was when he fought dirty. "It's fun because poker is the most socially accepted reason for lying. Everybody lies so earnestly and carefully, and by the end of the game, I know how to spot it."

"Letting me play wouldn't stop the strangers from lying to you, House."

"But you're no challenge. I know when you're lying to me."

"Not always," Wilson said slyly, and House paused for a moment, watching him. Then he bit down lightly on the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson didn't bother hiding his answering gasp.

"Not always," House agreed, "but that's what makes you fun."

***

Wilson stayed until Bus Stop Guy turned up, and then headed back to his apartment. On the way, he stopped by his office, picked up a few files and used glass-cleaner to clean the 'Yes, this is a judgement from God' off his office door.

***

The next morning, House was waiting for him at the hospital elevator. (Not that House would ever admit it.) They walked through the metal doors in silence -- Wilson thinking about the morning's appointments, House thinking about anything and everything -- and stayed that way until House asked, "Is it boring?"

"Is what boring?"

"Whatever's bothering you. Because if it's boring, I don't want to know."

"Who said anything was bothering me?"

"You didn't need to say it," House said, making a little tsk-tsk noise as he wagged a finger at Wilson. "It's in the slump of your shoulders, in the frown lines developing on your forehead."

Wilson reached up to rub his forehead, then dropped his hand at House's snort. "It's nothing."

"No, see, it's something. If it was something medical, you'd be leafing through those folders in your arms. Since you're not, it's not something to do with a patient, so there's a high chance it's really boring." House made a show of thinking, then said, "Worrying about the use-by date on your milk? Forget to pay your rent?"

"Jenny didn't hold the elevator for me this morning."

"Jenny being your friendly neighbourhood hooker?"

"Jenny being my upstairs neighbour."

"The one with the cats or the one with cactuses at her front door?"

"Cacti."

House nodded. "Okay, so Cacti Girl didn't hold the elevator for you. Most people don't hold elevators for you and it doesn't bother you."

"Normally, Jenny holds the elevator for me. Normally, I call out and she holds the doors, and I don't have to wait for the next one. This time, she didn't."

House looked intrigued. "Did she hear you?"

"When I called out, she looked up and then looked down," Wilson said, still wondering over it. "I'm pretty sure she heard me. That's what makes it weird."

"You called out, she made eye contact and then broke it." The elevator doors opened and they walked out, heading to Wilson's office. "Did she lean backwards or to the side as the doors closed?"

Frowning, Wilson thought about it. "To the side, I think. Why?"

"Because if she leaned backwards, she was leaning away from the control panel. She avoided taking any action, so she might have been tired or running late, but she didn't want it to be her fault."

"And if she leaned to the side?"

"She leaned across to hide her hand hitting the buttons. So she actively wanted to keep you out," House said with a sharp grin. "I'd take that as a personal slight. Maybe you should stop trying to get her into bed."

"I don't flirt with her." This was another argument they'd had too often.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't," Wilson said, pausing at the door to his office.

"It's okay. You flirt with everyone."

***

Things seemed to settle back to normal. House got a patient who defied medical expectations and kept him on the hospital grounds for two nights. Wilson had to explain to an eight year old that her dream of growing up to be the lead singer of Evanescence would never come true.

Wilson was busy enough that he signed for the registered letter and forgot to open it until a cancellation left him with a spare half hour. He read it twice before it made sense.

He stormed into House's conference room just as House was writing 'liver failure' on the white board. "Did you know I was getting evicted?"

House ignored him and spoke to Cameron and Foreman. "Blood test, MRI, go."

"House--" Wilson started, but Chase interrupted.

"What am I supposed to be doing?" Chase asked, giving Wilson a half-apologetic shrug.

"Go over the lab results one more time. We're missing something," House said, annoyed, and the three of them fled. "Now you can continue with your dramatic entrance."

"I'm being evicted from my building. The Tenants' Committee had a meeting about it. Apparently, I'm not a suitable tenant!" Wilson said, clenching the eviction notice in his hand and waving it before House. "You got me kicked out of my apartment!"

"How did I get you evicted?"

"I don't know how, but I know you did." House reached over for the letter so Wilson passed it to him, adding, "I have never -- in my life -- been evicted from an apartment. I have never had a tenancy board vote to make me move. Then you come along, stay a few nights, and I'm being given twenty-eight days to exit the premises."

"Huh," House said. "If it's homophobia, it's not really my fault."

"You caused this."

"By staying over?"

"By staring at my ceiling," Wilson said, knowing from the amused smirk on House's face that he sounded ridiculous. He didn't care. "I've barely moved into the place, and then you stared at my ceiling and now I'm getting evicted!"

House's smirk turned into a grin. Then, from behind him, Wilson heard Cuddy say, "Has House developed x-ray vision in the last week?"

"I don't need x-ray vision to appreciate that outfit," House said with an almost comical leer.

Cuddy rolled her eyes, then crossed her arms, which really... proved House's point. "I'll take that as a no."

"I'm expecting my x-ray spectacles in the mail any day now. It won't make much difference when looking at you, but the nurses in Pediatrics will start looking a lot better."

"But you won't look any better to them," Cuddy shot back. "What's going on?"

Wilson glared at House. "I'm being evicted."

"Really?"

"Really," House agreed, passing her the letter.

"Oh," she said as she read it. "It's a private board who've agreed by a majority vote. Looks legally binding."

"In other words," House supplied helpfully, clearly enjoying this far too much, "you don't have a leg to stand on."

"I can't believe I have to move again. Do you know how many times I've moved in the last six months?"

"Wasn't my fault you got divorced," House said, shrugging. "Any sane person would have got a place when they moved out. You were the one who had to soak in denial and live in three places before you accepted the truth."

In that moment, the fact that House was right didn't make  
Wilson hate him any less. "You are not visiting my new place. In fact, I'm not even going to tell you my address."

"You do know I'm not omnipotent, right? I don't actually have control of every member of your precious Tenants' Committee."

"I don't know how, but you did this. I know you did."

"Whether or not House arranged it, you still have to move. And you have a department meeting in ten minutes." As Wilson headed towards the door, Cuddy turned on House. "And you need to explain why I got a call from the clinic saying that you'd spent an hour in their waiting room telling everyone that our doctors wanted to amputate your good leg."

***

Wilson quietly fumed about it. He made appointments with real estate agents and saw three places (all three had stairs-only access, but one had a bad bathroom, one had bad parking, and one had eighties décor). He tracked down members of the Tenancy Committee and argued the eviction notice. Most of them said that an agreement had already been reached and it was out of their hands.

Mrs Murchensen sniffily avoided giving any details of who had complained about what and ended the conversation by saying, "It was simply felt by the majority that someone with your, well, your routines wasn't precisely the type of tenant that suited this building."

"But Mrs Murchensen," he'd started, and she gave him a chilly smile and said she had to be going.

He noticed that Jenny from upstairs didn't hold the elevator for him any more.

Deep down, Wilson knew he only had himself to blame. After all, he knew House. He'd known House before they ever got... involved, so it wasn't like he didn't know House was basically a hyperactive, precocious twelve-year-old. House screwed with other peoples' lives for fun, because he was bored, because he could. He didn't overstep other peoples' boundaries out of ignorance; he saw the boundaries and didn't care about them.

House didn't act like any normal, sane person in a relationship. Sometimes, that had its perks. House didn't take offence at things that had driven Wilson's ex-wives insane. If Wilson had had a bad week and needed some space alone, House would shrug and say, "See you tomorrow?" No questions, no doubts. No icy silences, no nagging, no entreaties to confide and share.

But it was frustrating to have to move everything -- furniture, clothes, books -- because of some immature, ridiculous stunt of House's. It was even more frustrating that he didn't know how House had done it.

When he saw House standing on his balcony, Wilson went out -- ideally to rant at House until he felt better -- but as he stepped closer and breathed in the brisk night air, something made him pause. "House?"

"Let me guess." Giving a small snort, House looked sideways at him. In the dusk shadows, he looked tired, lines crinkling the edges of his eyes, smirk sharp enough to cut. "You're about to give me a running commentary on the difficulties of finding a condo and the inconveniences of moving?"

Wilson turned his back on the view and leaned against the railing. There weren't a lot of things that could rattle House this much. He could probably count them on one hand. "Your patient?"

"Advanced Cirrhosis."

"But if it got to liver failure--"

"Fatal. I know," House said, running a hand through his hair. "She's got a day. Maybe less."

House stared down at the parked cars, trees and streetlights. He didn't look defeated, but even when he was, House didn't look it. He looked frustrated: brows lowered, jaw set. He looked as if he was trying to find a way to use willpower to bend reality.

Wilson buried his hands into his pockets. "Have you told her?"

"She's unconscious," House said, meaning that he hadn't. Meaning that he was postponing the bad news.

"If you want, I can tell her."

For a moment, he thought House would agree.

Then House huffed. "No. I'll tell her. But it's--"

"What?"

"It's too simple. Too obvious. It's clear, it's untreatable, it fits every symptom. Every single symptom. We should have seen it earlier."

"You can't blame yourself for not being in time to treat it. It's out of our control."

House rolled his eyes. "Acknowledge a higher power and your lack of control. Are you quoting a step from your Sexaholics Anonymous meetings?"

"I'm saying that you can't hold yourself to impossible standards," Wilson replied, not rising the bait.

"It was an easy diagnosis, an obvious fit. Foreman argued for it and I dismissed it as lazy detective work."

"So you had an off day," Wilson said, and House glared at him sharply. "Is it really bothering you this much?"

"That diagnosis," House said, throwing an arm out, "is like hearing that you got engaged to Cuddy. It seems like a perfect fit. You could get married and have attractive, middle-class, professional, Jewish, blow-dried children together, and everyone would say how obvious and right it was."

Pausing, Wilson pressed a hand against the rough concrete behind him. "I'm hoping you wouldn't."

"Of course not. As far as I'm concerned, it's completely wrong," House said, and Wilson realised it was only a metaphor, no deeper meaning to it. "But that might be because I have a vested interest. I don't want the obvious answer to be right, so I can't be sure of my misgivings."

"I think your misgivings would be caused by knowing the situation. You know us, House. Cuddy and I are friends, and regardless of the surface similarities, a marriage between us would be doomed for many reasons." He stopped when he saw the expression on House's face, the glitter in his narrowed eyes. "What?"

"Say that again."

"That we'd be doomed?"

"Surface similarities. It's just surface similarities," House said, and then limped back towards his team and, presumably, to another diagnosis.

Wilson watched him leave and decided that he could be annoyed about having to move tomorrow.

***

House didn't leave the hospital until after midnight. Wilson knew this because he hung around updating patient files until House shuffled through his door saying, "I thought you'd gone home."

"Then why come here?"

"To wreak havoc in your absence."

Nodding, Wilson cleared his desk of pens and folders. "And your patient?"

"We'll know by morning. Now are you giving me a lift home, or do I have to use my cane to knock you out and take your keys by force?"

"Since I'm rather fond of remaining conscious, we'll go with the first option."

***

It didn't occur to Wilson until the next afternoon -- after House's latest treatment had proved a success -- that he'd missed an opportunity to find out _why_ he was being rendered homeless. Specifically, it didn't occur to him until he asked House about it and House threw a jellybean at his head, saying, "If you wanted to know that, you would have asked last night."

"Regardless of the timing," Wilson said, catching the red jellybean thrown at him next, "I still deserve to know the reason. It's my apartment!"

"Your reasoning is faulty."

"I'm being evicted because my reasoning is faulty? That's new."

House hmmm'd for a moment, gaze sliding down to Wilson's shined shoes and back up again. "I don't know if it's new. Your reasoning might have always been faulty."

"It's a new excuse for eviction."

"It's not why you're being evicted." House tossed a Vicodin and a green jellybean into the air, and the caught both in his mouth. "It's why I'm not going to tell you why you're being evicted."

"By my reckoning, my apartment has something to do with my life and therefore I deserve to know what's going on. How is that logic flawed?"

"You assume that because you deserve to know, you'll be told. People don't get what they deserve. If they did, I'd have a bevy of babes at the Playgirl Mansion and Hugh Hefner would be just another dirty old man who only ever gets a hand on himself."

Wilson sighed. He looked over his shoulder at the glass wall of House's office. "You know, I could close those blinds, beat you to death with your own cane, and nobody would care. In fact, I could leave the blinds open."

"Cuddy would care," House said smugly, then threw him a licorice jellybean. It was Wilson's favourite flavour, but it wasn't a thoughtful gesture; it was because House disliked them.

Wilson ate it anyway. "She wouldn't blame me."

"She wouldn't blame you, but if she had to get you out of a murder trial and then explain to the board that the sweet head of hair in charge of those lovely cancer patients had killed their best diagnostician in a violent rage, she'd be a little exasperated. Annoyed, even."

House grinned. It wasn't charming. Not in the least. (Well… maybe a very miniscule, stupid, masochistic part of Wilson found it attractive, but that part of Wilson's brain was scheduled for a lobotomy as soon as he could arrange it.) "You're really not going to tell me?"

"If you really wanted to know, you'd have asked last night and got an honest answer."

"When you were tired," Wilson said, counting his points out on his fingers, "preoccupied with a patient's failing health and distracted by the level of pain from a bad day. Clearly, I should have blindsided you and taken advantage of your vulnerability."

"You would have gotten an answer."

***

Wilson wasn't entirely sure how he ended up in House's bed that night. Oh, he knew the mundane mechanics of it well enough -- his last patient left at 7.30pm, he was rubbing his forehead and staring blankly at the file, House came in and tossed a coin for the right to drive Wilson's car -- but there was an underlying why that evaded him.

He'd never been able to work out the underlying why of their friendship, let alone their… this. It was one of those things he didn't worry about analysing too closely but House, who analysed like a dairy farm produced milk, said it was a mutually beneficial melding of weaknesses, although he used more words. He'd actually said, _"Your issues dovetail into mine. The things about you that would annoy the hell out of someone else generally don't bother me. And vice versa. Therefore, we can spend actual hours together without hating each other or resorting to physical violence. What more do you need to base a relationship on?"_

Mind you, House had also explained it with, _"Because I've always been a sucker for boyish good looks, and you think unshaved and sarcastic is hot,"_ and all of House's explanations were likely to be lies if he thought it amusing.

But he was right that the unshaven thing was hot. Wilson couldn't deny that. Especially not when House had two fingers knuckle-deep inside him and was biting kisses across his shoulder blades, stubble scratching across Wilson's skin. Wilson twisted against the sheets, pressing his face into the pillow, riding the sensation of House's really long, really _good_ fingers sliding in and out. Moving slow enough to keep him on the edge, to keep him so close, keep him tightly wound and straining, feeling every gust of breath, every touch of House's skin -- the graze of an arm, the weight of a leg, heavy muscle and hot skin and the soft brush of body hair -- hearing every gasp and groan.

Feeling so good he really didn't want it to stop. Not yet.

Distraction. He needed a distraction. Something other than the sharp sting of House's teeth and the smooth stretch of fingers.

"You should pay for my move." The words came out in a rush, breathless, half mumbled into the pillow. "Since you caused it."

"You're thinking about moving?" A twist of House's fingers, and Wilson couldn't help pushing back, groaning and closing his eyes. "Right now, this second, that's what you're thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about costs--" Wilson couldn't even get the words out, because House bit down hard and twisted his fingers, and he wasn't close, he was swearing and coming against cotton sheets.

"Such a dirty mouth on such a nice boy," House said sweetly, attempting -- but not managing -- to disrupt the afterglow of really good sex.

"Mmgrph."

***

As usual, Wilson woke up at a decent hour and got to work on time, so he didn't see House until mid-morning. They passed at the elevators (Wilson was heading out to see a patient, House was heading downstairs to clinic duty).

Wilson considered starting with a 'hello', but "Why am I being evicted?" seemed a higher priority.

"You're still on about that?"

"You still haven't told me."

"And I'm not going to," House said, smirking and standing there in a rock-and-roll t-shirt half as old as he was. "I've got more important things to think about."

"Like whether or not Ricki's baby was fathered by her comatose husband on _'Days of Our Lives'_?"

"It was clearly her half-brother Jason from that night by the pool," House said dismissively.

For a moment, Wilson wondered if this was an actual storyline on the show. Then he remembered that it was a daytime soap opera and that he didn't care. "Good to know where your priorities are."

"I've got an important case of INLOHY to solve."

Wilson frowned in concentration. The condition wasn't familiar. "Inlohy?"

"Not inlohy, lowercase. INLOHY, uppercase," House said slowly, as if it was obvious. "INLOHY as in It's Not Lupus Or Hepatitis Yet."

"But you expect it will be?"

House shrugged. "You can never tell. Keeps my job interesting."

Wilson looked to the ceiling for patience. "As long as you're interested."

"Also stops the kids from getting complacent. And it sounds cooler," House added. "INLOH just doesn't have the same ring."

"You're still paying for my move," Wilson muttered spitefully.

***

It wasn't surprising that Cameron was the first to approach Wilson and commiserate with him. She understood how frustrating it could be to find yourself embroiled with House -- how hurtful and annoying his random selfishness could be -- and all the reasons why Wilson stayed around despite that. She left him with a pat on his shoulder and good wishes for the house hunting.

Chase was the next to stop by. They compared horror stories of bad moves -- damaged furniture; missing boxes; the hassle of remembering that you lived somewhere new and the embarrassment of showing up at the old address and wondering why your keys didn't work -- and discussed the amount of packing that was looming in Wilson's future.

When Foreman showed up at his office, Wilson started to put the pieces together. "Let me guess, you're here to console me about my enforced move?"

"No," Foreman said with a quick shake of his head. "I just wanted to know how much stuff you had."

With a flash of uneasiness, Wilson saw where this conversation was going. "To pay for my move, House is forcing his team to move my stuff?"

"Not forcing. Betting."

Wilson winced. "On a card game or a patient?"

"Patient," Foreman said with a careless shrug, leaning against the doorframe. This was what knowing House did to people: made them nonchalant about betting on a person's survival rate.

"Of course."

"Whoever doesn't get the right diagnosis is organising your move."

"You know that he'll win, right?"

"I know that at least two of us will lose." Foreman pushed himself upright and flashed a quick grin. "I just don't think it'll be me."

"Then why are you here?"

"Figured it can't hurt to stress the importance of finding a building with a good elevator. We already put up with House. We shouldn't have to deal with stairs too."

***

Apart from the occasional sympathetic smile from Cameron, the three of them didn't bother Wilson again. It didn't put his mind at rest.

House had promised to pay for the move, but this was House. The chance of House actually paying, and subtly accepting responsibility for acting badly, had always been slim. Wilson had been expecting a lot of griping about having to pay and a last-ditch excuse to avoid it.

House tricking his team into doing the move for him was a partway gesture. Not an acknowledgement of guilt, per se, but it was an attempt to soothe Wilson's ire. Which meant that House either regretted his actions -- a laughable thought, really, but there was always a chance the eviction hadn't been specifically planned -- or he really liked the idea of using well-educated subordinates for physical labour.

The sooner Wilson knew why he had to move, the better. He had a sinking feeling that it was going to be incredibly humiliating. He wasn't sure how -- couldn't imagine it because he wasn't a soulless, psychopathic, twisted diagnostician -- but House was capable of it, and anything House could do, he did.

Wilson opened his office door, wondering how bad it could be, and found the culprit sitting on his couch, cane resting across his lap. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm thinking about having sex in your office."

"With anyone I know?" Wilson asked, since it was pointless to ask how House had accessed a carefully locked office filled with confidential patient information. He glanced at his desk drawers nervously.

"I'm thinking about Nurse Alty. Rumour has it she's on the rebound." House held his hands out, palm up, as if considering a difficult choice. Then he tilted his hands up, fingers pointing towards the ceiling. "Knockers out to here."

Ignoring that, Wilson finished checking that his drawers were still locked and the files were as he left them. "Your team visited me today."

"All together? Did they sing in harmony?" House blinked and a quick frown passed across his face. "Wait. Do trios sing in harmony?"

"I would assume so, but they visited separately." Wilson watched House closely, but House was doing a wonderful imitation of being completely bored.

"What did Huey, Dewey, and Louie want?"

"To discuss my plans to relocate."

House shrugged.

Wilson sighed. "You realise all three of them will make woefully over-educated and under-experienced movers, right?"

"We agreed that I was paying for your move. Since their salary gets paid from the Diagnostics budget and that budget is technically mine, I'm arranging the payment as promised. You never specified professional movers," House said, standing up and shuffling across to Wilson's desk with a smug grin that made Wilson a little nervous. "If you don't specify, how am I supposed to know what's expected?"

"House--"

"Like that whole no sex at work idea of yours, where you specified that I would never, ever get any nookie in my office due to the glass walls and my team of under-experienced movers," House said logically, moving round the desk. Wilson lurched to his feet, trying to stall, but House moved faster than a self-labelled cripple should be able to and hooked an arm around Wilson's waist. "Your office, on the other hand..."

"Is still out of the question," Wilson managed as House cocked a hip against the desk edge, dropped his cane and started tugging at Wilson's belt. It was mortifying and completely inappropriate and so hot that Wilson had to remember to breathe. He gathered the brain cells that weren't blinded by the glint of House's victory grin or focused on the teasingly light slide of House's fingers and the low snickering of his zipper being opened (it felt like about twenty-three brain cells in all) and said, "House, stop."

House snorted. "No."

"House--" Wilson paused for an inconvenient gasp as fingers brushed over bare skin and those twenty-three neurons were reduced to fourteen. "Work and sex is a bad idea. A ve--" His breath hitched. "Very bad idea."

"It's a brilliant idea. After all, it's mine. Stands to reason."

"I didn't even lock the door..."

"Next time, you should remember to do that."

"No next time. No--" The hand on Wilson's back slid down, squeezing as House started a slow rhythm that made Wilson's breath catch. "No this time."

"You are such a spoilsport," House nagged, twisting his wrist just right and forcing those last fifteen cells to abandon the fight. Wilson closed his eyes and surrendered to the inevitable.

Then House suddenly pulled his hands back and turned as the click-click-click of angry heels became the low creak of a door opening.

Specifically, his door. And the angry heels were Cuddy's.

Wilson sat down as fast as he could.

"What are you doing?" she asked, staring at House. For a moment, Wilson feared the worst: that she'd seen, that this incident would be hospital gossip for years.

"Playing hide the cane." House stood there insolently, clearly confident that his untucked shirt would hide his erection. "Want to play?"

Cuddy stared him down and for once Wilson was glad that House had an inborn ability to get on her worst side. Otherwise she'd have noticed the embarrassed flush Wilson could feel creeping up his neck. Fear of humiliation -- and the unpredictability of Gregory House, who could and would say anything -- made him unwilling to risk the sound of a zipper being pulled up, but each tiny breeze of air-conditioning left him quite aware of being exposed.

He'd be fine as long as Cuddy didn't step any closer or have any reason to look under the desk.

Cuddy, thankfully, stayed standing in the doorway. "I want to know why your three doctors have booked three MRIs for the same patient."

"I'm teaching them to be thorough."

"At the hospital's expense," she replied. "There is no way the patient's insurance will pay for that."

"I'm sure they would," House said, pausing for effect, "if you went over in person and asked very nicely while leaning over their desks."

Cuddy's entire face tightened, proving House's Botox theory wrong. "So you have absolutely no medical reason for this?"

"Is 'because I want to' a valid reason?" Keeping one hand on the desk for support, House leaned down and picked up his cane. On the way back up, he waggled his eyebrows at Wilson. Even though Wilson was certain House couldn't have seen under the desk from that angle, he had to fight to keep his expression calm. House grinned, then turned back towards the door. "What about 'my dog ate my homework'?"

If Cuddy noticed Wilson's reaction, she was too annoyed to care. "You just lost testing privileges, House."

"The ability to test isn't a privilege," House objected. "You can't expect me to diagnose patients based on a Magic Eight Ball. I need results."

"From now on, you need permission. Before you order any tests, MRI, blood-tests, anything, you need my permission." She turned her attention to Wilson, who tried to look concerned instead of mortified. "Don't even think about booking his tests under your name. I'll be checking on both of you and you don't want to push me on this. Understood?"

"Yes," Wilson said and nearly sighed in relief when Cuddy pierced them both with one final glare and then sashayed out.

House watched her go with a calculating expression. "That wasn't how I saw this tryst ending."

"Get out, House."

Sporting a wounded pout, House whined. "It's not my fault we were interrupted."

This time, Wilson glared at him. "Get. Out."

He waited until House left, closing the door behind him, before finally closing his fly and dropping his head to his desk.

***

 

"Are you avoiding me?"

Wilson looked up and found House standing on his -- Wilson's -- balcony, holding the glass door open. "Yes."

"You don't call, you don't write, you don't visit," House said, pulling out a whiteboard marker. "A sensitive soul, like mine, could be a little hurt by that."

"Go talk to Cameron. I'm sure she'd have a cure for that," Wilson said, turning back to his patient's file, "like puppies or rainbows."

"Or a gallon of vanilla ice-cream," House replied with a quick grin. "Actually, that sounds pretty good. You want some?"

"If I say yes, that means I'm the one who's going to have to trek to the cafeteria, pay for both of them and then have the joy of delivering one to you, right?"

"Right." House nodded and slipped the whiteboard marker back into his pocket. He hadn't written anything on the glass door but he'd probably been distracted by the thought of ice-cream. Wilson wouldn't be surprised if there was a message waiting for him tomorrow. "Or I could send Chase to do it. If I'm paying the wages, I deserve service."

"You're paying their wages as doctors, not as waiters." After a moment, Wilson added, "And not as movers, either."

"I'm improving their life-skills. You think they'll spend their whole lives being the young hot-shot medico? Someday, when they're old and tired, and the medical jargon doesn't flow as easily as it once did, they'll need a stable job to fall back on."

Wilson snorted in amusement and House's answering smirk spoke of victory. Wilson really didn't want to know why. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll survive the afternoon without ice-cream."

***

As it turned out, apartment hunting sucked.

It wasn't the cost. Paying a higher rent wasn't going to make any real difference. It was the inconvenience.

He didn't want to move further from the hospital. He didn't want to have to take busy roads to work. He didn't want to live next door to Mormons or upstairs from a new rock band or across the hall from the fitness instructor. (The fitness instructor would have been welcome a few months ago, pre-House. He had no objections to sharing an elevator with someone well-toned and wearing lycra, but House would make it into a thing. Even if he did nothing other than nod at her in the corridor, House would make something of it.) He didn't want to have to learn new routes and new security passes and make sure that the elevators were reliable.

More than that, he didn't want to have to introduce House to an entirely new building of tenants.

Most of the time, he didn't want to have to introduce House to a patient. Luckily, most times he could simply throw a case file at House and trust that the patient would never, ever have to meet House face-to-face.

"I want to meet her," House said, after Wilson dropped Penelope Mizzi's file notes on his desk.

"House," Wilson said, collapsing into House's couch, "you never want to meet them."

"Her parents' named her Penelope Mizzi. That's downright cruel. Imagine the teasing she'd get through school."

"You want to meet her to commiserate?" Wilson asked skeptically.

"A kid with a name like that is bound to grow into a twisted, warped individual. I might like her." House shrugged. "I guess it could have been worse."

"How so?"

House grinned, but kept flicking through her file. It was a good sign. "Her parents could have named her Elizabeth. She could have been Lizzy Mizzi all her life."

Wilson winced. "House, please, do not meet my patient. I am asking you nicely, as one colleague to another, please don't take the time out of your busy schedule of harassing Cuddy and watching soap operas to tease her about her name."

"You don't think she'd get the joke?"

"I don't think I want someone who's been my patient for four years to have to suffer you as well as a mystery fever."

House gave a huge sigh. "Your cancer patients have no sense of humour. Just because they're dying doesn't mean they need to be completely lifeless." House paused. "Well, maybe they do, but you'd think they'd enjoy a good joke."

"Not a bad joke about their name," Wilson replied as Cameron, Chase and Foreman walked into House's office.

"And here are Donald's three nephews," House said.

Cameron and Foreman exchanged quizzical glances. They look at Chase, who shrugged and said, "You know, Huey, Dewey, and Louie? Donald Duck's nephews?"

"Points to the New Zealander," said House. "He knows his Disney."

Chase scowled. "And you know that Australia and New Zealand are separate countries, right?"

"Yeah."

"You're just saying that to be annoying?"

"I'm going to assume that was a rhetorical question." House threw the case file at Cameron, who fumbled to catch it. "Meet Lizzy, our newest patient."

Cameron blinked down at patient history, her lipstick highlighting her frown. "Her name's Penelope."

"Her nickname's Lizzy," House said, a little too earnestly. "She'd like you all to use it."

"Lizzy... Mizzi?" Chase wondered aloud, reading the file over Cameron's shoulder. "Why would anyone want to be known by that?"

"Because she's an aspiring poet." House waved a hand towards the door and the conference table beyond. "Now, shoo. Go in there, read the file, run some pointless tests."

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "You're not coming?"

"You guys can go ten minutes without me telling you you're idiots. You've been working under me for years. You should be able to call each other idiots by now." House made the shooing motion again and Chase was the first to move towards the door. "It's Wilson's patient. I want to discuss her past treatment with him. And I want you three to start running tests."

Wilson watched the three file out of the room. Foreman and Cameron sat down beside each other, laying the file open on the table and studying it. Chase headed straight for the coffee maker. "You really want to discuss her treatment?"

House snorted. "No. I've got your file notes, which record all treatments and reactions down to every obsessive-compulsive detail."

Shooting a worried glance at the very clear and transparent wall of glass that separated them from House's three employees, Wilson fervently hoped that sex did not come up in this conversation. "What did you want?"

House opened his top drawer and started rifling through it. Then he said, a little quieter and faster than usual, "I need you to look at a house."

"That's not a bad pun, is it?"

House's expression was incredulous. "You're lucky that you're a good-looking moron."

"It's a valid question!"

"No, it's not. It's a moronic question." House went back to fishing through his drawer and lifted out a business card. He scowled at it. "I need you to call this...woman and agree to see the place on Johanneson Drive."

Wilson walked over and took the card from House's outstretched hand. It looked like a genuine realtor business card and had a phone number and address written on the back. Wilson was confused. "Why?"

"Because Cuddy's friend is a real estate agent," House recited, staring at the wall, "and she has a place that would be perfect for you."

Wilson indulged in a wide grin. "And this is Cuddy's idea of making you bow to her authority?"

"And this is--" House started, hands waving in the air, and then stopped. He took a breath and placed his hands back on the desktop. "This is because I need to be able to do tests to diagnose patients, and Cuddy is an evil demoness spawned by the Father of Lies."

"I thought you liked that in a woman."

"Normally, yes, but not when she's my boss." House looked up at him, the light catching his very blue eyes, and his expression made it clear that he'd rather have root canal therapy without painkillers than ask for help. "You'll do it?"

Wilson pocketed the card, knowing that he was ten types of sucker. Not for agreeing to see some place to help House out, but for the extra giddy little heartbeat caused by House actually asking. He focused on smirking, only to control the goofy smile that threatened to appear. "Fine, but only because I don't want Cuddy double-checking that every test I run is for one of my patients."

House rolled his eyes. Wilson wasn't sure whether House had seen through him or not.

***

Despite Wilson's initial misgivings, regardless of the fact that it was merely a point-scoring exercise between House and Cuddy, the house was perfect.

It was a shorter commute, an easier drive; it was a quiet street with space from the neighbours but not an overwhelmingly huge garden. The main bathroom was modern and had a corner spa; the ensuite had a double shower. Both the gas fireplace and the air conditioning worked (he'd learned to test both of them during the first inspection, otherwise you froze all winter and boiled all summer). It was single-storey, so no stairs and no worrying about elevators.

There was a decked patio out the back with wide glass doors that opened fully and would be perfect for entertaining. There were four bedrooms, with one already set up as an office, and the master bedroom had a walk-in closet so large you'd need a compass to find your way out.

It even had a double garage and double-width driveway.

It was perfect.

***

Timing was everything. For patients, the right diagnosis and the right treatment at the right time saved lives. For Wilson, he was hoping the right timing would mean he could have his incredibly perfect house without endless trouble from House.

He waited until the start of _The Bold and the Beautiful_, then went to New Coma Guy's room. House had his feet up on the end of the bed and was eating a bag of microwave popcorn. Wilson let himself into the room quietly and didn't speak until the commercials started. "So..."

"You have about three minutes before my show's back on," House said around a mouthful of popcorn. "Don't waste time with unnecessary words."

Wilson took a deep breath. "I saw the house, I like the house, I want the house."

"Think you could say house one more time?"

"House!"

"There you go," House said, rummaging in the bag. "Want some?"

"I want the house," Wilson said earnestly. "I really, really want it."

House huffed. "Don't stare at me like a constipated puppy."

"The point-scoring is worthless, you know that. You both know that. Give it two weeks and you'll be doing it all over again. And the house is perfect. Perfect location, fantastic layout and it even has a spa. I shouldn't have to lose that because you don't want to give Cuddy the satisfaction." House barely looked interested, so Wilson tried the guilt card. "You've already made me lose an apartment that I rather liked. Don't make me lose my perfect house."

House made a shushing gesture and pointed at the screen. Some overly made-up forty-something was threatening some overly made-up twenty-something, and they both took a long moment to stare meaningfully off-camera.

Wilson helped himself to the popcorn.

There were a few more threats, and then some couple anxiously reuniting and talking of marriage plans, and then a few more threats, and then a commercial break.

"So?" Wilson asked hopefully.

House slowly chewed a handful of popcorn, glaring sideways at Wilson. "Fine. You can take the house, but you don't get to tell Cuddy about it. No overwhelming gratitude, no polite little thank-you gift. In fact, you don't talk to her about it ever. Understood?"

Wilson didn't react quickly enough to hide the goofy smile, but since House was going to mock him for this anyway, it didn't really matter. "Understood. Cuddy will probably find out about it, though."

"Of course she'll find out about it. I'll tell her. But she doesn't need you and your blindingly white Hollywood smile being all charm and gratitude about it." House scowled into the popcorn bag and lifted out a few kernels. "Now, are we done? Can I be left in peace to watch my show?"

"Certainly," Wilson said gracefully, walking towards the door.

"See," House called out loudly, "that's exactly the type of charm that nobody needs!"

***

Wilson got back to his office to find "Bald chicks are hot" written across the glass door. He wasn't at all surprised to see it there.

***

Wilson stepped into the room and then winced at the volume playing on the stereo. It was something from the 70's, at his best guess. The type of rock that House loved playing as loud as he possibly could.

"David Bowie?" Wilson guessed after a moment.

House rolled his eyes. "You have no musical taste."

"I have musical taste," Wilson bit back. "It's just that my taste veers more towards the classics. And a reasonable volume."

"'Rebel Rebel' _is_ a classic."

"Tchaikovsky is a classic. David Bowie is outdated pop music," Wilson said, and House gasped. In a way that was completely theatrical, over-the-top and unnecessary. Any sane person would find it annoying; Wilson found it endearing.

"Take that back!" House demanded. Then Cameron, Chase and Foreman walked into the room. He turned on them. "Tell Wilson to take that back."

To Wilson's moderate surprise, it was Cameron who jumped in. "Whatever it was you said that House doesn't agree with, take it back. Because House and his godlike intellect are always right and we are mere mortals who are always, always wrong."

House looked a little surprised. "I was expecting the back-up," he said, "but not from you. What happened, Chase? Did you already meet your daily sycophant quota?"

"I have plans after work," Cameron said with a bit of a shrug. "I don't want to wait around wasting time while he agrees and you tease him, then he defends himself and you tease him some more. We actually have something we're supposed to be doing right now."

"Well," Wilson said, amused despite himself, "as long as you're not wasting time indulging House."

Cameron glared at him. Wilson took that as his cue to leave.

He happily left the four of them to discuss symptoms and headed straight back to his apartment. He had an idea. No, not an idea; a moment of clarity. Complete and utter clarity.

House liked rock music. House liked loud rock music. And even better than that, he liked playing it loud enough to split an eardrum. Wilson had a feeling that he'd suddenly cracked the mystery of his eviction.

His first stop was Mrs Murchensen's door, but she didn't answer. He had a suspicion that she was home and refusing to answer, but the distinction didn't matter.

He headed over to Jenny's. She answered after the fifth knock, opening the door just a fraction. She was wearing a roomy blue shirt and her dark hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail. "Um, yes?"

"Jenny," Wilson said, smiling as sweetly as he could. "I was hoping you could help satisfy my curiosity. I have a feeling I know what the eviction was about. I just wanted to check."

"Really?" she said, looking both uncomfortable and quite embarrassed.

Wilson paused for a moment. Generally, people listened to you more if you gave them a little bit of time to get curious. "Was it a noise complaint?"

She gave a nervous half-smile and he was already congratulating himself on how brilliant he'd been to deduct the answer when she said, "Um, sort of."

"See, I have a friend who sometimes stays over," Wilson said cautiously, "a few nights a week. And he can be very inconsiderate when it comes to neighbours and reasonable levels of noise."

"Oh," she said. She opened the door a little wider, pushing a strand of her dark hair back from her forehead. "Well, um, yeah."

"I'm really sorry if that was the case." Wilson tried to look as sincere as he could. House judged his level of sincerity on a sliding cancer scale; he would've declared this a five lymphoma attempt. "I didn't realise--"

"Look," she said, interrupting him. "It's not, I mean, it's not that I object. You know? I mean, to whatever-- A person's got a right to enjoy what they like, right?"

Wilson nodded encouragingly. "Exactly."

She shifted her weight from bare foot to bare foot. "And it's not that I mind it. During the daytime. I mean, it would be far more disturbing at night."

"Okay," Wilson said slowly, a twitch of confusion itching the back of his mind.

She seemed to debate with herself for a moment -- leaving Wilson a little wary -- then she took a breath and continued, "But I was babysitting for my sister, you know? And those aren't the type of noises you want to have to explain to a five year old. And there are other people with families, too. It's not that I object," she added, holding up her hands, palms out, "I really don't. I just… I don't think it's suitable for an apartment building with kids."

"Excuse me?" Wilson asked in surprise.

"Well, you know," Jenny said, shrugging.

Wilson took a moment to review the conversation in his head. He was still confused. "I know my friend's musical tastes. There's lots of coded references to drugs, sure, but it's not anything explicit. You wouldn't think a five year old would be able to pick up on that."

Jenny's eyebrows jumped. "Music? It wasn't the music that was the problem."

Behind her, a phone started to ring.

"I've got to get this. I'm waiting on a call," she said, half-apologetic, half-relieved. Wilson started to nod and she closed the door.

Wilson felt more confused than ever. At least he knew now that it was a noise complaint -- not music, but definitely noise -- but it still didn't make sense.

***

The move was easy enough. He gave the forwarding address to the Tenants' Committee (Mrs Murchensen took it with two rigid fingers and promised that any unwelcome mail would be sent to him at the earliest opportunity) and Cameron, Chase and Foreman all pitched in to pay for professional movers. Nothing got accidentally broken and no furniture disappeared. It all got packed and arrived safely, boxed up neatly and marked 'Kitchen' or 'Living Room' or 'Bedroom 1'.

He even found an extra box amongst the bedroom ones. He was surprised, until he opened it up and realised it had to be House. Not because it was House's stuff, per se, but because Wilson knew he had never – in his entire life! – bought a DVD called "Fort Dix Dicks" and sporting half a dozen men barely dressed in a military-theme. Wilson pulled it out, and then realised that the whole box was filled with gay porn.

It had to be House's handiwork.

***

Since he wasn't going to bring a box of porn to work, regardless of how much he wanted to dump it on House's desk, Wilson was forced to invite House over. House didn't ask for directions but he showed up the next night, parking his motorbike frighteningly close to Wilson's BMW.

Wilson opened the door silently, then turned and walked back to the living room.

House followed him, asking, "What, no guided tour of your perfect place?"

Wilson spun around, and then pointed to the Box o' Porn now sitting on his coffee table. "That's yours, right?"

Wilson hadn't expected contrition. It was just as well because House only looked amused at his own devious scheming. "Yeah."

"Why would you do that? Why did-- No, I know why. To embarrass me," Wilson said, cutting himself off. No point asking House stupid questions. "When did you get time to weasel a box full of dirty DVDs into my place?"

"Last time you went away for the weekend, I got a copy of your keys made up."

Wilson snorted. He was a lot of things, but he'd never been that stupid when it came to tempting House. "I never gave you my keys when I went out of the city."

"You're right." House thought for a moment, frowning as if concentrating. "Last time I stole your keys, I got a spare set made."

"To carry a box of porn into my apartment?"

"It wouldn't have been any fun if I just carried a box up. I brought over a couple 'dirty DVDs' every time I stayed the night and then put them behind your wedding albums."

"Behind my--" Wilson buried his head in his hands, picturing the movers' reactions to finding that particular surprise. "Why would you do that? More importantly, why would you need spare keys if you were sneaking the DVDs in every time I took you home?"

House looked to the left, staring down at the open box. Wilson knew that expression on his face: House was torn between denying it all and gleefully acknowledging his schemes. Normally, his ego won out and, like a comic super villain, he'd explain all. Wilson just needed to stay quiet and wait.

Long moment of silence, then House huffed out a sigh. "I had the keys so I didn't have to break and enter every time I wanted to play them."

"Why sneak into my--" There was a moment – a pure moment of horror – where Wilson understood. Understood Mrs Murchensen's reaction, understood Jenny's embarrassment (_'those aren't the type of noises you want to have to explain to a five year old'_), understood the eviction. For that moment, he was amazed at the new levels House would sink to simply to amuse himself. Then the anger kicked in. "You snuck into my apartment and played porn loud enough for my neighbours to complain and kick me out of my own home! Are you clinically insane?"

"Oh, Jimmy, don't be like that," House cooed. "You haven't seen the real brilliance of this plan yet."

"It gets worse?" Wilson demanded as House grabbed one of the DVDs and went to put it on. "Of course it gets worse. I'm involved with you so it couldn't be as simple and mortifying as my neighbours only thinking that I'm addicted to gay porn."

"Considering how much you enjoy the man-on-man sex, I don't think the gay part should be important," House said, picking up remotes and turning the TV on. He went straight to the chapter selection screen and picked chapter four. Then he paused in on an image of a guy sitting – thankfully clothed – at a kitchen table. "This might work best if you close your eyes and listen to the wonderful dialogue."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but House wouldn't press play until he closed them. The voice-over was nothing special but then there was a knock and a new voice. A voice that sounded familiar, something he'd heard before. A hospital employee, maybe?

Wilson focused, trying to place it.

His answering machine. His own recorded message. That was what it sounded like.

He opened his eyes and glared at House. "You found a porn star that sounds like me?"

"Technically, I found an adult entertainer that sounds like you," House said happily. "And then I found a whole pile of adult films he'd made with a few friends or four."

"So instead of thinking I'm addicted to porn, my neighbours thought..."

"That you had a very varied and surprisingly kinky sex life. Or maybe that you were filming porn in your apartment. I really couldn't say."

Wilson collapsed onto the couch. He could have asked House to leave, spent the night fuming, the next day avoiding and the next night yelling at House. It wouldn't make House regret his actions or stop him from doing something even more embarrassing next time. And now that it was done and Wilson was sure that nothing short of WWIII could make him ever show his face around his old apartment building again, there wasn't too much point to sulking about it.

So he didn't yell at House, didn't throw him out on the street. But when House started digging through the box saying, "There's one in here set in a hospital that's actually pretty hot," he took satisfaction in cuffing House over the back of the head.

***

In retaliation, he told Cuddy about the house.

They were talking about the experience of moving from an apartment to a house, and Cuddy mentioned talked how helpful the real estate agent had been when she got her place, and one thing led to another. Wilson said that his agent had been a great help and that the firm was good at what they did and Cuddy asked which firm he used.

So he told her. It was a harmless remark -- he could claim it accidentally slipped out -- but it would give her bragging rights over House for a while.

Cuddy looked interested. "I've never used them but a friend of mine--"

"Works there?" Wilson supplied helpfully.

"No, she's looking for a place to buy," Cuddy corrected and Wilson let the conversation drop.

***

Wilson wanted to figure it out before he discussed it with House. That was harder than it sounded because House had taken to Wilson's new place like it was his own. For the last week, he'd spent every night at Wilson's. He'd blared horrible punk-rock from Wilson's stereo system and raved about the acoustics; he'd got a spare garage key cut and claimed one half for his bike; he'd worked out how to use the spa in the bathroom and his soap had appeared in the shower.

"You do have a place of your own, you know," Wilson reminded House as House started unpacking a pile of CDs from his backpack. "You don't have to spend every night here."

"It's closer to the hospital," House replied, flicking through covers.

"Doesn't mean you have to clutter up my living room floor with your junk."

"You've got two spare bedrooms." House leaned back against the couch, tilting his head to look up at Wilson. Then he reached up, sliding long fingers up the inseam of Wilson's pants. "One has a bookcase. I'll put it in there."

"I think you're supposed to ask for permission first," Wilson said. He would have objected more firmly but House was sliding his hand up and from the gleam in his eye, it wasn't an idle tease.

***

It wasn't until the second week when his cleaning lady asked if the sheets in Dr House's room needed to be changed that Wilson realised House had, for all intents and purposes, moved in with him. He'd claimed garage space and claimed a study (sure, it had a bed in it but the wardrobe was full of textbooks, novels and a small stack of CDs). His clothes had started magically appearing in Wilson's closet and when Wilson looked closely, his unused drawers had been claimed by House as well.

In a normal relationship, Wilson was pretty sure you asked the other person before taking over their space. Then again, he was seeing House. There was no 'normal' here.

"When were you going to tell me you're moving in?" he asked House, after he closed House's office door behind him.

House didn't look up from his Gameboy. "When I'd sublet my apartment."

"You're subletting your apartment?"

House nodded. "Paperwork went through yesterday. We'll have to move the rest of my stuff over in the next two weeks."

"But..." Wilson sighed, not entirely sure whether or not he was wanted to object. "You've spent the last decade living in that apartment."

"Your place has great acoustics and my piano would fit into the back room really well. The commute to work is easier, there's plenty of storage space for two adults and it has a spa. Also, this way I don't have to buy groceries for you to cook for us."

"But you'd still have to put in for the groceries. And the utilities."

"Okay."

"And you're going to pay for the movers this time. Actually pay out of your own bank account."

"Sure."

Wilson stood there, blinking at House. And House sat there, pressing buttons and pulling faces as he tried to get to the next level. Wilson was pretty sure none of his previous relationships had involved a children's toy while they discussed living arrangements.

"Anything else?" House asked distractedly.

"I guess not." Shaking his head, Wilson wondered when his life had become so strange. This was how Alice felt in Wonderland, he decided, walking out. He paused at the doorway. "Wait, what's wrong with my house?"

House put the game on pause and looked up (for the first time in today's conversation). "Nothing's wrong with your house."

"The card wasn't for a friend of Cuddy's. It wasn't a favour. That was just something you told me so I'd go see it." There was no point in waiting to bring this up: it was probably best to find out now. "So what was wrong with it?"

"Nothing." House seemed sincere, but that didn't mean a lot. "It's perfect for you, you said so yourself."

"If it was perfect for me, you could have just mentioned it to me," Wilson said slowly, working it out as he said the words aloud. "If nothing's wrong with it, then it is perfect for me, and you didn't mention it because you didn't want me to know you'd been looking at real estate for me."

House shrugged and went back to his game. "Something like that."

"You didn't want to tell me outright because you didn't want to admit to feeling guilty about getting me evicted. But you covered my moving costs and you knew I'd take that as a sign of implied guilt, so it can't be that."

"You take everything as a sign of implied guilt," House said, head bowed down. "I think it's a Jewish thing, an overdose of liberal guilt for your forefathers killing our Saviour."

"You used an excuse to con me into seeing it because I was angry at you for getting me evicted." Wilson sighed. He knew he was missing something. Then he spotted that House was only moving one thumb. He wasn't actually playing, he was just avoiding eye contact. "You used an excuse because you got me evicted after you saw it. You already had plans for me to move in there. You don't do things without planning them first, so you already had plans for you to move in there."

House gave up the pretence of playing and looked up, but he didn't say anything.

"You know, you could have just suggested that we move into a new place together," Wilson said, not sure if he'd been living with an evil mastermind or the world's biggest control freak. "It would have been a lot easier on my blood pressure."

House grinned, sly and charming. "But it wouldn't have been as much fun."

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback can be left here or on [Livejournal](http://out-there.livejournal.com/975248.html?mode=reply).


End file.
